I was invited to record some music for a tech startup in Russia, in St. Petersburg. I took a train, with my guitar. I imagined it would be a long ride, overnight maybe, but suddenly we were there. I saw my contact from the Russian company through his office window. I hurried off at the stop. When I arrived I told everyone who I was and they were surprised and delighted I had made it. But I’d forgotten my guitar. We discussed how I might retrieve it but there was no way. It had to be halfway across Russia now. We still thought there’d be a way to record something, so we started planning to.

There was something about work. Some controversy over my edit of a page or two of copy. Then a gathering with friends in which climate change was discussed. It was clear we were completely fucked. I observed several strange creatures, bandaid-shaped, writhing on a desk. Later we were in some underground complex with rooms and businesses. One of them was a head shop. I pointed it out to J. K. “In case you need some papers.”

A family had sent a letter to President Obama offering their dog, and the dog then became the Obamas’ dog. Curiously emotional dream.

There was a commotion outside the window at work. Everyone rushed over to look. One man chased another on a nearby rooftop. Was there going to be a fight, a murder? The pursuer threw something at the other’s back that produced a puff of smoke. The targeted man turned around and they seemed to be having words. Then he climbed onto our window somehow, and began to wash it. There was a pool of water ten feet or so below him that extended between all the neighboring buildings. In it were several horses. Somehow it was clear that his intention was to remain on the window until a horse leapt up onto his back. Why I don’t know. Soon enough one did, and stayed there a few moments, its front legs wrapped around the man’s shoulders. Then the horse fell backwards into the water with a spectacular splash. It seemed to be alright.

M.R. was all alone in Montreal in a recording studio. The rest of the band commemorated the event by hanging a picture of him in the vocal booth there. The track had big, sustainy power chords.

I was in a music store and impulsively bought a guitar, an Epiphone Les Paul. The cashier was Will Ferrell. “Does it come with a case?” I asked. Indeed it did. Will produced a soft gig bag from behind the counter. I oohed and ahed like it was something beautiful, amazing. The total was $177 and something cents. I handed him $180. He fumbled around the drawer, looking for change. He didn’t seem to have the correct denominations of bills and coins. “Am I overpaying for this guitar?” I asked, thinking it was a fabulous joke. “I am not going to overpay for this guitar!” On my way home with it I wondered what I was going to tell S. What the hell did I need another guitar for anyway? I didn’t imagine choosing to play it over my regular one.

I was at work, in what looked like a cafeteria, taking a break, maybe at the end of the day. I was reading a Don Delillo book and two colleagues sat nearby. One mentioned how much he liked Delillo. “It’s not for simpletons,” he remarked.

“I think if he heard you say that,” I said, “he might accuse you of—”

“Condescension?”

“Condescension. Being condescending.”